Page 34 of The Party Plot

As if reading his mind, Jamie wrote,so no more drama with hot adult son?And he added insult to injury with a couple of eyeball emojis.

Casey:Nope. no problem.His stomach dipped as he switched his phone to silent. Taking a deep breath, he opened the car door and got out.

11.

Casey heard music radiating out from the house as soon as he set foot on Laurel’s front walkway. He recognized the tune: it was some 80’s torch song about a lady who had a one-night stand with a stranger in a bar. Something his grandma would have sung her heart out to while washing dishes, a parakeet bobbing along on her shoulder. But it wasn’t a woman singing this time. Casey didn’t really know enough about music to know if it was a baritone or tenor or what, but the voice was beautiful, no other word for it, making his scalp prickle and a little shiver travel down his spine. Huh. He’d almost hoped that after all the build-up, Laurel wouldn’t be as good as everybody said. He wasn’t sure he could handle another reason to—not dislike him.

The song switched off after Casey had been pounding on the door for several minutes, and Laurel answered, his face flushed, sweaty hair pushed back from his forehead. His eyes were a little wobbly, and there was a smell of alcohol emanating from him.

“Are you just day drinking and doing karaoke by yourself?”

Laurel shrugged. “Sometimes it makes me feel better.”

“How embarrassing for you.”

“Yeah, well.” Laurel crossed his arms, the flush on his face deepening, and something twisted in Casey’s stomach. “Why are you here? Did I forget we had another meeting? Or is this just a random booty call?”

“No, I—” suddenly Casey was the flustered one. “Yes, we had a meeting. We still need to go to the Halloween store and figure out all the shit your mom wants for the party.”

“Fuck the Halloween store,” Laurel said languidly. “Why don’t you come in?”

Casey bit his lip. “It really isn’t a booty call. And who even uses that phrase anymore? You’re so—”

“Look, I’m in no shape to go to a Halloween store. Or any kind of store.” Laurel stepped back, holding the door open. “Keep me company. I ordered takeout.”

Casey eyed the TV in the background, neon lyrics still plastered across the screen.One night of love was all we knew, it read. A little too on-the-nose for his comfort. But maybe he could just sit down for a second. The scarecrows and plastic skeletons and other chintzy props that Denise had insisted upon weren’t going anywhere, anyway. “I’m not hungry,” he warned. “And I’m leaving if you make me listen to a one-man concert of cheesy love songs.”

“How dare you. Ann and Nancy Wilson are consummate badasses, and I will accept no slander of them or their music.”

“Okay,” Casey said, not knowing who he was talking about. His own musical tastes tended toward early 2000s R&B and the chillhop mixes on YouTube. He sat down, feeling exhausted all of a sudden.

He hadn’t seen the living room of the condo in the daylight before. It was nice; of course it was nice. Tastefully if unimaginatively decorated with coastal tchotchkes and clapboard signs that advertised the beach. No real hint of Laurel’s personality except for the karaoke setup. A set of bay windows overlooked the beach, the sand a muted ivory, the sea dark under an overcast sky. No one was out today, and the ocean had an eerie glassiness to it. Hurricane season. They’d been lucky not to get hit by anything so far, but he felt a little trickle of unease, looking at the leaden color of the clouds. “Don’t your neighbors mind the noise?”

“I don’t have a lot of neighbors this time of year,” Laurel said. “Most of these are vacation rentals. Besides,” he added, with a crooked grin, “I’ve been told I have the voice of an angel.”

“I mean, sure,” Casey said begrudgingly. There was a familiar green Krispy Kreme box on the table, next to a half-empty bottle of some brown liquor, and he tried to keep his eyes off of it. Laurel hadn’t said that the takeout was donuts, and now he felt prickly and off-balance, alone with not one but two things he found hard to resist. “It wasn’t bad. Sounded like a professional cover.”

Laurel sat down across from him, and Casey’s heart clenched a little at the genuine expression of happiness on his face. “Thank you. Do you want one?” he added, grabbing a donut. He took a large bite. “Or wait, you don’t eat sugar. Right?”

“It’s bad for my skin.”

“That’s a myth.” Laurel studied him, smiling slightly. There were crumbs of sugar glaze stuck to his lower lip. “It wouldn’t hurt you to indulge once in a while.”

Casey bristled. “It’s really none of your business.” His phone vibrated, and he took it out, hoping for a distraction from the heavy curiosity in Laurel’s gaze. Another raccoon picture from Jamie. This one was climbing a tree, a hot dog dangling from its mouth.

“My mom?” Laurel asked.

“No, it’s my friend, Jamie. He—“ Casey could feel his cheeks getting hot, and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why this was somehow more embarrassing than Laurel seeing him naked. “He feeds feral raccoons. There’s a colony of them near his house. Sometimes he sends me pictures.”

“Oh my God, can I see?” Laurel leaned forward delightedly.

Casey stuffed the phone back into his pocket.

“You know, I never really imagined you having friends,” Laurel said. He reached for another donut, then, seeming to think better of it, took a drink from the bottle on the table instead. “You seem so—impenetrable.”

Casey shrugged, not sure what he meant by that, and not sure it was a compliment. It didn’t matter what Laurel thought about him, anyway.

“But I’m not surprised you like raccoons.” Laurel grinned. “They’re scrappy and cute. And a little sinister. Seems fitting.”

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